


The Operative Word

by peevee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bad Decisions, Exhibitionism, Humor, M/M, PWP, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 14:06:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1107758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peevee/pseuds/peevee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I do not <i>whine and squeal</i>,” Greg protested, immediately recalling several intensely pleasurable incidents where both whining and squealing may have occurred. “And we’re not fucking in my office, for fuck’s sake!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Operative Word

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Persiflager](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflager/gifts).



> For Persiflager, for the Sherlock rant meme fic exchange! Happy Holidays, Persi, I hope you enjoy! :D
> 
> Totally unbeta'd, un-looked at by anyone apart from me, and a little bit typed-at-6-am-this-morning-from-very-rough-notes. Any and all spag errors I blame on my half-asleep brain.

Greg pushed his fingers through his hair and rubbed at his eyes, resisting the urge to faceplant into the pile of papers on his desk. Twelve hours and counting, and the paperwork seemed to be multiplying, stacks on the floor and on his desk that he could have sworn had appeared on their own. He squinted out through the frosted glass, but he could still see the shadowy shapes of a couple of late workers, and that meant that he probably couldn’t escape for another hour.

His fingers itched for a cigarette. The patch on his arm might as well have been a very expensive plaster for all the good it was doing, and he stared blankly at the report in front of him, taking a long, shuddering gulp of lukewarm coffee.

The words were a blur in front of his eyes, and a glance at the clock revealed he’d been on the same page for the last fifteen minutes. He wished for his bed. Hot coffee. _Beer_ , and a smoke.

Outside his door, a blurry shape appeared. A blurry, familiar shape; tall, with a dark sweep of coat.

Sherlock didn’t bother with trivialities like knocking, just breezed in and locked the door behind him. Perfect. Obviously, this was the perfect end to Greg’s wonderful, no good, very bad day.

“Fuck off.”

“No,” said Sherlock. He hadn’t immediately launched into a rant, which could be a good sign, or--

_”Lestrade.”_

And great, wheedling. A bored Sherlock was almost worse than Sherlock on a case, and Greg took a steadying breath through his nose before he did something regrettable, like burst into tears.

“Seriously, go away. I may be provoked to homicide, and the worst thing about it would honestly be the paperwork. Then your brother would be forced to have me disappeared, and all in all if you just _fucked off_ \--”

“I’m _bored_ , Lestrade,” Sherlock interrupted. He started to pace, making Greg’s already muddled head hurt. “Bored!”

Greg pinched his nose. “Can’t John--?”

“At some kind of _conference_ ,” Sherlock spat. “It sounds hellish, and he’s ignoring my texts.” He shoved a small pile of papers to the side and sat on the corner of Greg’s desk. Greg watched as his carefully organised pile of ‘least to most mind-numbing’ was deposited on the floor with a soft _whump_.

“Unless you’d like to help me with some of this,” Greg offered, as Sherlock gave his patented, _I’m unsure if I’m hallucinating or if you are actually the most idiotic human being I have ever encountered_ glare (vaguely incredulous, with a side of utter disdain), “then I haven’t got anything for you. Seriously. Go and bother Anderson, or something, I know you both secretly enjoy it.”

Sherlock’s face arranged itself into the expression of someone who had just stepped in something unimaginably horrible.

“I may vomit,” he said. “And I wasn’t _actually_ here for a case, you know, unless--?”

“No!”

“Fine, fine. As I said.”

He was still sitting on the edge of Greg’s desk. Greg raised his eyebrows. Sherlock shuffled slightly closer.

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, come _on_ ,” Sherlock whined. “Your brain, such as it is, is about to atrophy from all this,” he flapped his hands, “ _rubbish_.”

“Oi!”

“You’re just waiting for the rest of those braindead morons to scurry away before you can. Why not?” He slid off the desk, and slithered between Greg’s spread legs.

“I’m--I have important...stuff to be getting on with, Sherlock,” he managed, lamely.

“Liar,” breathed Sherlock, and when had he got so close? Greg shifted a bit in his seat. Sherlock’s mouth was right next to his ear, and they were _in his office_ for fuck’s sake, did the man have no sense of decency?

No. No, he didn’t. Greg bit his lip as Sherlock’s _tongue_ touched delicately against his earlobe, and gave a half-hearted attempt to paw him off. 

“We’re in my _office_ ,” he hissed. “There are people right there!”

“I had noticed,” Sherlock murmured, and the world hated him. It was so, so unfair that he was using that _voice_. He was weak. He was a weak man, and he should have just gone with a firm _no_ , because Sherlock was already insinuating himself closer with a predatory sort of intent.

“Sherlock,” he said, slightly strangled, as Sherlock moved his head to the side and nuzzled under his ear, in a move that would have sent him to his knees if he hadn’t already been sitting. “The walls are _glass_.”

“Frosted,” said Sherlock dismissively, nuzzling lower, _licking_. “They’re all in their little...cubes anyway.”

Greg’s hands were resting lightly on Sherlock’s waist. Just this, he thought, hips hitching forwards a little. Just this and then I’ll stop him.

“I’ll suck you, if you like.”

 _Fuck_.

Said, of course, like Greg was the one begging for it. Like he’d be bestowing a great favour. Still, that mouth. Sherlock on his knees. Greg bit his lip, tightened his fingers against the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers and watched as Sherlock pulled back, a gleam of triumph in his eye.

Not about to let himself be entirely played, Greg tugged him sharply off balance, brought his hands up to pull Sherlock’s mouth against his.

Kissing Sherlock was always a bit of a fight. He tended to bite, and had to be wrangled into submission, but then his mouth would go soft and lush, and he kissed with a selfish sort of indulgence that made Greg’s knees weak with want. He was making soft, greedy little noises in the back of his throat.

Greg allowed himself a moment to appreciate the quiet, to slide his fingers into Sherlock’s wiry hair before Sherlock was pulling back, face pink. Greg touched his thumb against Sherlock’s lower lip, swallowing thickly as Sherlock gave him a soft lick, before slowly sliding to his knees.

His expression was so calculatingly seductive that Greg should have been offended, but he was too busy being stunned dizzy as all the blood in his body began a pulsing rush towards his cock. He fumbled at his fly, clumsy, and how the hell did he get himself into these situations? Cock out in his office on a Wednesday evening. He could see the soft shape of someone moving outside.

“Come on then,” said Sherlock, impatience beginning to show again as Greg faltered. He batted Greg’s useless fingers out of the way and undid the zip himself, not wasting any time before his sneaky little tongue was slipping out and over the bared head of Greg’s cock.

“Jesus,” Greg gasped.

“Shh,” murmured Sherlock, and licked him again. Greg spread his legs unthinkingly and Sherlock slid two big hands up his thighs, grip firm and warm.

“Thought you said ‘suck’,” Greg managed, hips twitching up towards that hot mouth.

Sherlock looked up at him, all big eyes and soft-fanned lashes, and sucked an oh-so-gentle kiss on the wet tip before pulling back. Greg let his head drop back, groaning.

“Up,” said Sherlock, breath puffing little slivers of sensation along Greg’s nerves.

“Wha-?”

“ _Up._ I want to fuck you.”

“What? No!”

“Oh, come on. Don’t be a spoilsport.” Sherlock leaned forwards and _poked_ that little pink tongue mulishly at his cock. “You always whine and squeal, and you always love it.”

“I do not _whine and squeal_ ,” Greg protested, immediately recalling several intensely pleasurable incidents where both whining and squealing may have occurred. “And we’re not fucking in my office, for fuck’s sake!” He remembered at the last moment to whisper. “You offered blowjobs!”

“I said I’d suck you,” said Sherlock, narrowing his eyes in a pleased sort of way. He walked his fingers flirtatiously up Greg’s thigh and onto his belly. “Which I did. And now I want to push you up against the wall,” he leaned forward and sucked another hot, lush-mouthed kiss against the tight, twitching head of Greg’s cock, “or right down on the floor,” a shivery breath, “and fuck you.”

And the problem was. The problem was, as Greg felt his mouth drop open, it was that he wanted it. Wanted that. Just another bad idea in the long history between them of Bad Sherlock Ideas, but he was already so turned on he was half-dazed, and the idea of letting Sherlock do it. Fuck him up against the wall, or, God, on the floor. It was filthy, and insane. It was stupidly hot.

Stupid being, perhaps, the operative word. He fisted his hand in Sherlock’s collar anyway, and dragged him upwards in lieu of answer.

“Yes,” Sherlock hissed against his mouth, and Greg felt that familiar low thrill at having Sherlock like this, a little undone at the edges. Plucked at, ragged and pink. It felt weirdly precious, if Greg was being sentimental about it.

“Floor,” Sherlock snapped, against his mouth.

And well, tender feelings never did last long around him.

Greg scrambled off the chair as he was manhandled to the ground, and Sherlock was _looming_ , spreading his hands up over Greg’s hips possessively, up to his arms to pin them. Greg squirmed, and Sherlock tugged at his hands, grinning darkly as Greg panted.

“Stupid idea.”

“ _Brilliant_ idea,” Sherlock countered, moving his hips in a short, sharp shove that had Greg spreading his thighs automatically, wide enough that his muscles burned hot. It only intensified the ache in his gut.

Sherlock let go of his pinned hands shortly to fumble between them, tugging at Greg’s trousers, then at his own, and when Greg looked down at Sherlock’s undone fly he could see that the front of his boxers were sticky wet, could see the slick tip of his dick where it nudged eagerly at his waistband. It kicked straight to his stomach, suddenly a great, gnawing pit of want.

“Turn around,” Sherlock said, low, “and _shut up_ ,” and he became aware that each breath out was short, sharp, _oh, oh, oh_. He scrabbled onto his stomach, and Sherlock was shoving at his trousers, getting them down to his knees before he was squirming up against Greg’s back, cock wet and leaking all over him.

“C’mon,” said Greg, “come on.”

“Lestrade,” Sherlock panted into his ear. His big hands were pawing all over Greg’s shoulders, up and down his waist, then onto his arse and spreading him obscenely wide, letting Sherlock’s cock nudge at him. Sherlock groaned softly, hips twitching.

“Oh,” said Greg.

There was a pause as Sherlock pulled away, some short, slick noises, then his cock was sliding back, wet with lube and big and insistent.

“Can you take it like this?” said Sherlock, quiet and close. “I’ll be slow. I’ll be so slow.”

“Yeah, I-yeah.”

He felt Sherlock’s face mashed against his shoulderblades for a second. Sherlock’s knees kicking his apart. He started to push himself onto his elbows but Sherlock bore him back down.

“Like his,” he hissed, and then he was lowering his not-inconsiderable weight down, _leaning_ , and his cock was almost, pressing, pressing.

“Jesus,” Greg gasped. “Jesus,” and Sherlock slid a damp, trembling hand from his hips to his shoulder, weirdly tender, moved his hips in tiny, forceful pushes and Greg felt his body _give_.

They stilled, startled, Greg’s body clenching uncertainly, Sherlock’s quivering above him. Greg panted, shaky. Sherlock’s hand was still on his shoulder and he felt as Sherlock bent his head over the back of his neck and mouthed at the soft point of hair there.

There were points of sensation on his body, and they felt connected, like there was something threaded between them; his nipples where they scraped at the carpet, his softly aching cock, his arsehole which spasmed, rhythmic, around the thick head of Sherlock’s cock. He felt pinned, flayed and opened out, and he gasped as Sherlock licked at his shoulders, rutted himself deeper and deeper until Greg could feel him everywhere; in his throat, splitting him open.

It rose up inside him suddenly; the sharp, shocking knowledge that he was about to come, each tiny movement building incrementally. He could feel the deep, hot pulse of it starting inside him and he whined into the carpet, _fuck_ , and then Sherlock was dragging them both sharply up, snapping at him and pinching painfully just under the head of his cock.

“Not yet,” he said, sounding slightly strangled. “Jesus, Lestrade.”

“Sorry,” Greg panted, blinking blurrily at the new angle, which had slid Sherlock’s cock exquisitely deeper. He squirmed a little, gasped when that pushed him too close again.

“Dont come!” said Sherlock. “Stop that.” He gave Greg a swift smack, which only made him shove back harder and moan.

“You’re shameless,” said Sherlock breathlessly. “Look at you.” He began to thrust forward, slow and measured quickly dissolving into greedy and frantic, and Greg could only gape softly at the floor as he was fucked sweetly into it.

“Gonna,” he gasped, “I’m-”

“God, you-,” began Sherlock, and then Greg couldn’t hear anything past the rushing in his ears, and was that him? Sherlock shoved salty fingers in his mouth.

“Shut up, shut up,” he was moaning, but his hips were moving jerkily, fucking Greg through it as he choked and tensed and was coming, sobbing out into the hot cup of Sherlock’s fingers. Sherlock shuddered, shoved himself deep and brutally hard, and Greg imagined he could feel the liquid sensation of being filled with come. He moaned, weakly, face pressed into the carpet, and feeling like he was made of jelly.

“So much for quiet,” Sherlock said, still plastered hot and sticky against Greg’s back. Greg glanced up, heart still pounding, but the view outside his office was dark. Nobody there. He breathed out shakily. “I think people upstairs probably heard you anyway,” Sherlock said. “Whining. Squealing.”

Greg felt his ears heat, and hoped Sherlock couldn’t see.

“Your fault.” Muffled into the carpet.

“Completely and utterly _not_ ,” Sherlock scoffed. It was a relaxed sort of scoff, though, muffled as it was in Greg’s hair.

“Heavy,” Greg huffed. Sherlock gave a displeased sort of noise and rolled to the side, his soft cock slipping wetly over Greg’s thigh. It was a slightly unpleasant feeling, but Greg felt a pulse of startled heat slither up his spine anyway at the intimacy of it. Stupid, after it had been inside him.

He leaned over a little, hopeful for a kiss, surprised when Sherlock allowed it. They kissed almost chastely, soft lazy presses of lips until Greg began to feel uncomfortably exposed, and a bit sticky in unpleasant ways.

“Mm,” said Sherlock, blinking, sleepy-looking. Greg kissed him again, and this time when he pulled back. Sherlock’s face was beginning to rearrange itself into his usual expression of slightly bored disdain. It was fun to kiss that face too, but then Sherlock was sitting up, tucking his shirt haphazardly back in and buttoning his trousers. Greg watched him from the floor.

When he finished, he stood awkwardly.

“I-um.”

Greg almost laughed. 

“Fuck off, then.”

Sherlock smiled, then, and suddenly it wasn’t awkward at all. He tipped his fingers to his forehead mockingly.

“Might want to put some pants on.”

“Get out of my office,” Greg said, unable to stop himself smiling.

Sherlock gave a sweeping, dramatic bow, winked, and ducked out, leaving Greg on the floor of his office, pants and trousers round his knees, come leaking onto his carpet, and his paperwork in absolute ruin.


End file.
